My Darling Dear
by wordweaver93
Summary: Brittany finds a fellow student attempting suicide just in time to stop her. How will their relationship develop when Brittany realizes that the girl cannot talk, but can certainly sing? Brittany/OC. OC POV. T but M for later chapters. REVIEW PLEASE!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey everyone! I usually only write for House and Buffy, and I've only recently become a Gleek. Originally I wanted to do an AU Brittana story, but my idea flopped, so here's Brittany and an OC. It starts out really angsty, but it gets happier as it progresses. And I understand that suicide and depression are pretty big things to take on in writing if you haven't really experienced them, so I'm apologizing in advanced if any of this offends anyone. Now, enjoy and REVIEW! **

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I stood on the chair I stole from my Spanish class and tightened the knot suspending my scarf from a pipe on the ceiling, all before working the other end of the scarf into a noose. Studying the piece of fabric carefully, I thought of how, in the winter, my neck was inseparable from its black, skull patterned warmth. Then, I almost cried. But I knew I had to do it. I knew that my life was worth nothing; my stepfather told me daily. In that moment, all I wanted to do was end it, to wipe Sarah MacTavish from the face of the earth.

Some people think that teenage depression is all fabrication, but truthfully, it existed as my only reality from the moment I began high school. Students can express extreme cruelty when they want to. They never liked my accent. I had heard of Americans who found Scottish accents beautiful, even charming, but here, it just made me different. Everything about me became a target: my ginger locks, my freckles, my androgynous style, and of course, my lesbianism. After a while, it seemed that when people looked at me, they only saw a gaudy neon sign reading GAY in big, bright letters.

I readied myself to become proof that a person can very well be bullied to death.

The average observer would think that I had it all. My mom and I moved to the States so she could marry my stepfather, David Foster. As vice president of the largest independent insurance company in Ohio, he made good money. Sometimes I think that's why mom married him: the money. She loved my dad so much, and then he died in a car crash that left she and I unscathed. I missed him more than words could describe and often thought that maybe, just maybe, if he was still alive, I wouldn't be miserable. The man was kind and gentle and every word he spoke was heartfelt and encouraging. He loved me, his daughter, and I adored him. And then, just after celebrating my eighth birthday at my favorite restaurant, the world took him from me.

David, on the other hand, loathed me like a sunny summer day loathes the rain. He was the one who told my mother to toss me out when I came out of the closet. He said that homosexuality was un-American. He, the religious nut he was, said I was Satan's very spawn, and that he knew it from the first time he saw me. My mom said that God made me that way, and that he must have a plan for me. I asked "What God?"

Eventually and begrudgingly, the argument was settled. No one in our house would ever speak of my orientation and the responsibility to keep it that way would be heaved onto my shoulders. Out of sight, out of mind was good enough for David, so it had to be good enough for me.

And then, of course, were the kids from school. Some people got slushied, some were thrown into dumpsters, but I, oh I was special. What they did to me was worse than what they did to that fat girl in the AV Club and boy with the flatulence problem. No, they didn't taunt me or tease me. They all simply ignored my very being. No one even bothered to slam me into a locker I was so invisible. I think I would have enjoyed it, all because it would mean that someone acknowledged me.

I wanted to write a note, explaining that my death would not be a suicide, but a murder. David and Noah Puckerman and that cheerleader Quinn Fabray and the creepy kid with the Jewfro that asks me for underwear and everyone else on this goddamn planet except for my mom would be held accountable for my demise. I would be Sarah MacTavish, victim of life. But I didn't write the note. I just stood on that chair and looped the scarf around my neck methodically and then savored the sensation of existing for one last time. A shiver arced down the back of my spine as I took in a final breath. Closing my eyes, I began to count down from ten, and as soon as I did, the bathroom door opened.

The first thing I noticed about the girl was her Cheerios uniform. She was tall, and blonde and cute, and someone I had often seen in the presence of Quinn Fabray. I felt even more incentive to end it at the sight of her, the epitome of teenage popularity, and therefore teenage cruelty. When she saw me, she didn't move from where her feet were planted about a yard or two away. The expression on her face was not of shock or worry as I might have expected, but of sheer dimwitted brainlessness. She wasn't just a Cheerio, she was a dumb Cheerio, and the only emotion that shone through her blue eyes was confusion, as if it perpetually belonged there. She didn't understand what I planned to do. I internally laughed. I could take someone's obviously fragile sanity with me.

I jumped from the chair and felt the scarf tighten about my neck, constricting my airways with a deliciously satisfying pain as my body struggled to breath and my mind struggled to hinder the efforts of my body. My eyesight began to blur, but as it did, I noticed a flash of white and red as the girl, her empty eyes now frantic, rushed to my side, scrambling up on the chair and untying the scarf from the pipe. I hit the floor with a thud and the moment I reach the ground she began work on removing the scarf from my neck. I struggled, but in my dazed state she overpowered me. I rubbed my sore trachea and let out a small cough.

The girl knelt down by my side and gave me a curious glance. I could tell what thoughts ran through her mind. She was naive. She couldn't comprehend why someone would want to take their own life. It was in that moment when I glimpsed the innocence radiating from her very skin, not unlike a halo. And then, I noticed the tears streaming down her face like rain drops moving slowly down a windowpane.

"I don't get it," she muttered, her voice cracking a little. "I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do!"

All I managed in reply was a glance at the floor and the urge join her in her sobbing. Not for myself, not for what I almost did, but for her and for what I made her witness and do.

Suddenly my mouth opened and singing erupted from my vocal cords, the soft notes and gentle words meaning to soothe her. "_Hey Jude / Don't make it bad / Take a sad song and make it better / Remember to let her into your heart / Then you can start to make it better._" My voice quivered and as my song continued, she picked me up off the floor and placed me on my feet.

"You have a pretty voice," she whispered in a timid kind of monotone that I assumed more mirrored her usual manner of speech. And then it hit me. I paused and wanted to thank her, but I couldn't form the words with my mouth. I tried and tried and tried, but my brain wouldn't let me. So I just kept on singing, and by the sad smile that graced her features for but a split second, I could tell that she understood.

"I know," She continued. "I'll take you to Mr. Schue. He'll know what to do." As she walked me down the hall, her hand in mine, guiding me, it dawned on me that my voice wouldn't want to speak in the normal way for a long time. I'd have song and writing and that was it.

"My name's Brittany S. Pierce by the way," she offered, slurring her middle initial and last name together so it sounded like she introduced herself as Britney Spears. She tried to smile, seemingly for my sake, encouraging me to tell her my name.

I tried. I tried so hard to mumble, even whisper the words Sarah MacTavish, but I couldn't. And then, I began to cry a real type of crying as if all the despair of the planet emptied itself in my tears. We stopped and she hugged me and shushed me and told me that everything would be alright. For a moment, I actually wanted to believe her.

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**A/N: Sooooo? Love it? Hate it? Review please! I'm DESPERATE for approval. Or disapproval. Whichever floats your boat.**

**A/N2: Yes, I understand that Santana may seem like the bad guy now, but once Sarah starts recovering, she warms up to her. Right now, she's just being possessive of her Brittany.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Glad I got some good feedback on the last chapter, but I need more! This one might not be what you guys want or expect or anything, and it just occurred to me that it might not even make sense. But I figure that this is my story and what I say goes!**

**A/N2: Also, I realized that I probably should include song credits. So for the last chapter, I used Hey Jude by The Beatles (if that wasn't obvious) and this chapter includes Help I'm Alive by Metric and Jeremy by Pearl Jam. I would highly recommend looking up any songs you don't know in order to better understand the story, and also because they are just good.**

**A/N3: Usual apologies for typos and grammar and stuff.**

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Mr. Schuester was my Spanish teacher. I stole my hanging chair from his classroom and somehow would need to tell him where it still rested, alone, in the girl's bathroom. Of course, that had become the least of my worries. Why this Brittany girl wanted to take me to him, I couldn't know, but I did understand that he was not capable of helping me. Not as if I wanted help. I still wished to die.

I expected to be led to my Spanish class, but instead Brittany brought me to the choir room. Realization dawned upon me. This girl was a member of the glee club, New Directions. This caused me some puzzlement. The glee club members were almost as low on the social pyramid as I was, though I supposed being a Cheerio gave her some social leeway. "You have a nice voice," Brittany complimented me again, "so I think you might like it here." The gesture was a simple one, but that seemed to be what the blonde was about: simplicity.

She opened the door and pulled me into the room slowly, allowing the scene to unfold at a processable pace. A group of twelve or so students sat in chairs on risers built into the floor. I recognized some of the faces, and some I didn't like. Puckerman was there, and Fabray, the two who first thought that getting the entire school to ignore my very existence would be a fun prank. Another Cheerio, a pretty Latina girl, was also present, and I identified her as Quinn's other wing-woman, and recalled seeing her with Brittany. Everywhere. All the time. The pair were apparently inseparable. I understood that Brittany was trying to do something nice for me, but she obviously didn't have a clue as to why this could be bad for me.

"Brittany, you're late..." Mr. Schue began before spotting me. "And Sarah? This is a pleasant surprise."

Brittany, all of a sudden becoming timid again, gestured for Mr. Schue to come closer, which he did, obviously getting a taste of the worry in her expression. Still holding my hand, she looked to him. "I don't really know how to say how I'm feeling or what happened because I don't know that many words, but it's not good or anything."

"Well, just try," he replied. She nodded, leaned forward, and whispered something in his ear. The teacher's expression changed from one of calm control to one of shock and disbelief. He looked at me, and then back to her, and then back to me. "Is this true?" I tried to say yes, but my lips still weren't working.

"She doesn't talk, Mr. Schue; she sings," Brittany explained. "That's why I brought her here." She smiled at me reassuringly.

"I see your thinking, but this is really something for Ms. Pillsbury to handle."

The blonde was about to reply when suddenly, a new voice erupted from the assembled students. "Hey, Britt!" It was the Latina Cheerio. "Why are you hanging with that loser?" Several of her peers turned to look at her, but quickly dismissed it as if it was a regular occurrence. I sniffled and Brittany squeezed my hand tighter.

"Hey!" Mr. Schue snapped as I've never heard him snap at a student before. "Listen Santana. I've tolerated a lot from you, from all of you, but _that_ was not tolerable."

"San," Brittany mumbled, "you've protected me from people since we met. Now it's my turn to help someone, Okay?" Despite the slight, nearly inaudible volume of her voice, her words bore force and the room fell silent. Santana just appeared confused and angry. She glanced at Mr. Schue. "Ms. Pillsbury?" She asked. He simply nodded and began to follow us out.

"Rachel's in charge!" He called from over his shoulder, eliciting a cheerful squeal from a prudish looking brunette.

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"Oh," Was all Ms. Pillsbury could say. "Sarah, what led you to want to do this?" I didn't speak.

"Brittany says she only speaks through song," Mr. Schue supplied.

"And how does Brittany know this?"

"She wouldn't talk to me," the blonde said, "but she sang to me when I found her and started crying. It made me stop. Sarah's voice is pretty." It was the third time she complemented my singing.

The two adults began squabbling over the most effective way to get me to speak, and soon I tired of it. A pen and a pad of paper rested on Ms. Pillsbury's desk and I grabbed them to scrawl out a message as the others watched curiously.

_The kids bully me. My stepdad bullies me. To them I'm invisible. To him I'm everything that is wrong in this world. No one cares. No one ever has. Just my mom. But she's been siding with _him_ lately. I miss Scotland. I miss my dad. I want a life that I can't have anymore. I've been miserable for the better part of my teenage years. The world expects me to smile and bear it. But I can't._

Mr. Schue read the note aloud with sad eyes. "I'm sorry you feel that way Sarah," he sighed. "I'm sorry that people do these things to you and that you've lost quite a lot. But there is _never_ any reason to kill yourself. At least there shouldn't be. This is high school. In a few years, you'll be gone and into the real world and you'll see that things are very different."

I shook my head and began to write more.

_The world won't ever accept me. I guess some of it will, but never all of it. There will always be someone somewhere just waiting for an excuse to hate someone like me. Just like racism and sexism will never be completely eradicated, homophobia will still be around. People here treat me worse than that Kurt kid in your glee club. He thinks he knows hate. He hasn't seen hate._

Mr. Schue again read my writing out loud.

"Oh," Ms. Pillsbury said again. "I see. I recommend seeing a teen counselor about this Sarah. This is a pretty big thing that you need to be helped around." I began shaking my head frantically, emphasizing a solid "no."

"You have to get help somewhere," Mr. Schue said. "It would be dangerous not to." I continued to shake my head. Therapy meant involving my mom, and I couldn't do that to her. If I had succeeded in my attempt, she would have dealt with it and moved on. But I didn't and if she found out, she would feel even more devastation than my death could ever cause.

"Music is the best therapy," Brittany interrupted. "You say that, Mr. Schue. I still don't understand why I need to see that shrink for my AHDCSAD... or whatever it's called instead of just going to glee club though, so maybe you're wrong."

"She might be onto something," the counselor said. "What do you think?"

"I don't think so," he replied. "We're in danger of risking a student's life!" I began jotting my opinion on the pad.

_I can't go to therapy. Can't worry my mom. She can never know. I'll join glee as long as you don't make me do that._

_"_Well," Ms. Pillsbury said, "it seems like we've worked this out."

"No!" Mr. Schue shouted. "That's what she wants. She's suicidal, Emma. She doesn't believe she wants help."

She looked to Brittany. "I have a feeling that she might, very soon, decide she does."

He picked up on the implication and nodded. "Alright. The club can always use another voice."

The matter was settled. I was to report to glee practice the next day at three-thirty. I didn't think it would help. Schue was right; I still didn't want to be helped. But joining glee club beat the alternative because no one would try to force help upon me. I could still do it. I could still end it. I would just need to give it some time, make them think I was getting better. Yeah, that would work.

As we left the guidance office, Brittany took my hand again. "Santana's my best friend. She doesn't really like anyone but me, but if I ask her to like you she might." I just looked at her. "And you like lady kisses too?" She exclaimed. "I guess we have somethings in common." At this, my eyes widened, perplexed. A Cheerio who likes girls? Strange.

"Really just Santana's lady kisses though," she continued. "I haven't been with other girls. Santana likes it when I'm just hers, even though she said she doesn't want anyone to know because she says she has a reptile or repertoire or something to keep." I knew she meant reputation. "Anyway, I kind of feel like I can trust you, so I'm telling you all this and you can't tell anyone. She said she only sleeps with me if Puck isn't around and she wouldn't sing a duet with me because she thought that people would talk about us and I couldn't figure out what was so bad about it. Not that I haven't been with boys too, but that's only because I'm a Cheerio and everyone wants me to. I don't like boys as much. They kind of make it hurt, but I don't mind making out with boys. It's really just Santana, though."

Brittany was in love with this Santana girl, and her rant made it blatantly obvious. Santana however, didn't seem like she deserved her.

"Hey!" The blonde smiled. "Will you do a duet with me sometime?" Her optimism was contagious. I nodded. "Yay!"

I couldn't describe what I felt at that moment, not to myself and certainly not to anyone else. There was the despair and hate that had settled itself in my heart and my head, making a permanent home, but something bubbled underneath as well, something akin to hope. Something in the back of my mind that dared to suggest that there really could be something better than what I thought the world was. But I suppressed it and became afraid. I was alive, and I didn't know what to do. So I began to sing. "_I tremble_." Brittany's eyes perked up. "_They're gonna eat me alive / If I stumble / They're gonna eat me alive / Can you hear my heat beating like a hammer? / Beating like a hammer / Help I'm alive my heart keeps beating like a hammer." _

I wanted to cry out of the sheer overwhelming nature of my predicament, but I didn't. I just sang. And somehow, just like in the bathroom, Brittany understood. I didn't know how I could tell, but there was something in her eyes, in her reassuring smile, that told me she could read me. And it dawned on me. Brittany wasn't stupid. She was slow and not exactly book smart, and more of a follower than a leader, and maybe just a tad insane, but not stupid. She was just a nice person, almost too nice, who had a knack for understanding people. Their needs, their desires, their hopes. She could just _see_.

The rest of the walk back to the choir room was done in a comfortable silence. Upon arriving I found that Mr. Schue had gotten there before us and was speaking to the class. "Ah!" He grinned as we walked in. But it was a delicate smile, as if trying not to break the thin thread that connected me to this world. "This is Sarah everyone. She'll be joining the club."

"Not fair, Mr. Schue!" The girl whose name I remembered as Rachel said. "She has to audition, just like the rest of us."

"The circumstances are special, Rachel," he said.

"No, she's right," Santana smirked. Everyone stared at her, as if agreeing with Rachel was something she never did.

I pulled out a pen and a sheet of looseleaf from my backpack and jotted down _I'll do it_, before handing it to Mr. Schue.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and I nodded before turning to the rest of the class, preparing to sing, the butterflies in my stomach awakening.

"Wait!" Brittany said suddenly, handing me my scarf. I had not even been aware that she had it. She then hugged me; a friendly, reassuring gesture, though I could feel Santana's glare on my back. I'd have to watch out for her.

I faced the class again, and opened my mouth. My song choice seemed appropriate, given the situation. "_At home / Drawing pictures / Of mountain tops / With him on top / Lemon yellow sun / Arms raised in a V / The dead lay in pools of maroon below / Daddy didn't give attention / To the fact that mommy didn't care / King Jeremy the wicked / Rules his world / Jeremy spoke in class today / Jeremy spoke in class today_." I felt the words of the song ring true in my heart, just as they must have for Eddie Vedder when he wrote them and as they must have for Jeremy Wade Delle before the world even knew about him and a popular grunge band wrote a song under his name. I imagined Mr. Schue behind me sporting a horrified expression and Brittany standing there crying for me internally and the other kids just wondering why the hell I even decided to sing this song. "_Clearly I remember / Picking on the boy / Seemed a harmless little fuck / But we unleashed a lion / Gnashed his teeth / And bit the recess lady's breast / Oh, how could I forget? / He hit me with a surprise left / My jaw left hurting / Oh, dropped wide open / Like the day / Oh, like..._"

"Stop!" Mr. Schue interrupted. "Sarah, you're an amazing vocalist, really you are. But I'd like to talk to you later about your song choice."

"I'd agree," said a black girl whose appearance screamed R&B diva. "You sound great, but that song was just _depressing_."

"Thank you for your input Mercedes," he replied, not without sarcasm. I didn't reply, couldn't, but nodded to Mr. Schue and took a chair next to Brittany. Santana, who sat on the blonde's other side, chanced a glare, hoping I wouldn't see her. I did, and she darted back to an upright position in her chair. Mr. Schue then proceeded in an attempt to persuade a group of teenagers that Michael Bolton was cool.

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After glee, I found Mr. Schue. "Glad you're not shirking away from me," he tried to joke. Upon receiving no response, he continued. "I think you misinterpreted the meaning of the song you sang. Have you ever seen the music video?" I nodded. I had seen it hundreds of times. "Then you know that the first and last words spoken are not part of the song, but a fake newscast. 'Sixty-three degrees and cloudy in a suburban neighborhood.' It's the same at the beginning of the song when Jeremy is alive, and at the end, when he's dead. It's about tragedy and how when you're gone, the world goes on and nothing changes. You might affect a few people, but mostly only yourself. Eddie Vedder himself said that 'The best revenge is to live on and prove yourself. Be stronger than those people. And then you can come back.' It's not worth it to die when you can live to be spirited and determined to show all those jerks up. And I don't think you're as alone as you think." He gestured behind me and I turned, only to see that Brittany had waited for me. I would imagine at that moment, my face was one of confusion as I stumbled off and Brittany locked her pinky with mine.

"This is what I usually do when I walk with Santana," she half smiled, half sighed. "But I'm doing it with you because she's kind of mad at me for staying back. Usually when she gets mad at me I get really sad, but this time, I think I'm kind of okay with it. Do you want to come to my house? We can work on that duet you said you'd sing with me." I smiled and nodded. Between my inability to say no to this girl and the fact that I was actually thinking about what Mr. Schue said, I kind of scared myself. I felt like things were changing.

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**A/N: So, I'm kind of portraying Santana as more of a bitch than she really is, but I kind of think it's appropriate, given the fact that Sarah's the type of person she would definitely pick on. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. PLEASE FOR THE SAKE OF LIFE ITSELF, REVIEW!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey everyone! So, I thought I should let you all know that I will NOT be updating regularly, but I will when I have the time. I'm going to try for once a week, but even that might be a stretch. Anyway, usually apologies for typos and grammar and the like. Enjoy!**

**A/N2: The song song included in this chapter is The Trick is to Keep Breathing by Garbage.**

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Brittany plopped down on the edge of the bed and I sat down beside her hesitantly. I hadn't had a friend since the day I left Scotland, and as a result, I felt so awkward on someone else's bed in someone else's house in someone else's life. I could sense her all around me; the subtle fragrance of her skin lingering on her sheets, the warmth of _her_ air and the touch of_ her_ breath on my cheek we were that close. The smile she sent me was, like each one she beamed already that day, reassuring and kind.

"Let's start working on the duet," Brittany said. "Do you have an iPod or something?"

I nodded.

"Can I see it?"

I nodded again before groping around in my backpack until the hard, rectangular frame of my iPod Touch made contact with my fingers. Immediately after I handed it to her, she started to flip through the songs.

"I don't know any of these," she mumbled, "so you pick one." Brittany passed my iPod back to me and I put it on shuffle. The first song up was The Trick Is To Keep Breathing by Garbage. I almost smiled, but instead just turned to her and pleaded with my eyes, telling her that I wanted to do _that_ song. And she knew.

"I like it," the blonde said. "We'll do it."

She and I spent the next hour and a half rehearsing so that it would be ready for glee, and then upon finishing, we returned to our spots on her bed. "You're nice, you know that?" Brittany said. "Why would someone as nice as you want to take that niceness away from the rest of us?"

I shrugged.

"It's weird. I've only known you for this one day, and I haven't even really talked to you, but I feel like I really get along with you." She hugged me and pulled me down on the mattress for a cuddle. "I know I seem like kind of a slut, but I'm not, I promise. I'm not trying to have sex with you.'

This made me giggle.

"Oh! You laughed! Your laugh is cute."

I covered my mouth with my hand as if I said something normally inappropriate on an occasion in which it was especially unacceptable.

"Don't be upset," Brittany mumbled, afraid she might have hurt my feelings. "It was hot. Actually, you're hot. But I'm still not trying to have sex with you."

I smiled, and tried to open my mouth to speak, but the words still wouldn't come. And she understood.

We chose our song and worked vigorously on perfecting it to perform the next day at glee. Afterwards, her mom offered me dinner, and I obliged with a happy head nod. I was nervous, afraid that she might ask me about myself. When Mrs. Pierce did, I panicked, but Brittany covered for me smoothly.

When it was time to say our goodbyes, I hugged Brittany, and even her sister, and waved goodbye to her mom and dad before beginning the short trek home. The cool, autumn air joyfully stung my skin and smelled of crunched leaves and grass clippings. It was this time of year that reminded me most of Scotland. The temperature and the sky and the wind were all simply perfect, and as I strolled up to my door, I couldn't help but think of Brittany and her kindness. It wasn't pity or deception; it was genuine kindness. Then I decided that Brittany would like Scotland, and someday, if we remained friends, I would take her there.

I whipped my key out from my pocket and placed it in the lock, hoping that David wasn't home from work. Unfortunately, he was the first thing I saw as the door swished open, a deep, unsettling frown plastered on his face. His upper lip hung slightly over his lower one, giving him the appearance of a large, ugly gorilla.

"Where the hell have you been?" He bellowed. I could almost see the veins in his thick neck popping, and for a moment I was reminded of Harry Potter's uncle, Vernon.

I needed a voice now. I couldn't get away with shaking my head or writing something down, and only Brittany understood the meaning of my songs. I searched my throat for several seconds before strenuously finding the sound I needed. "At a friend's house," I said in a barely audible whisper.

"You can't stay out this late!" David shouted this time. He only shouted when mom wasn't around. That meant no one could save me.

"It's only seven."

"Listen, kid." He placed his hand on the balding hair of his scalp. "I make the rules around here. You are to obey them without question. Besides, do you think I'm stupid? You don't have any friends."

"I have one."

"No you don't. Now tell me what drugs you've been doing so I can tell your mom and finally get you kicked out of this house."

My eyes filled with tears. Usually, I wouldn't let him affect me, but given the events of that day and the fragile state of my mind, my body forced me to break down. "I haven't been doing anything," I sniffled, but he was already walking towards the kitchen, always one to avoid dealing with anything that might actually require some compassion. He had effectively ensured my continued silence.

I stormed up to my room and stripped, wrapping a towel around myself. Just as quickly, I ran into the bathroom and, hanging my head, stepped gingerly into a cold shower before beginning to cry. The water mixed with my tears and I tasted them, salty and sweet, as I bit my lip, adding a little blood to the mix. And then, I sat myself down on the floor of the bathtub, white and porcelain, allowing the jets of water to simply pound atop my head, wallowing in my depression.

Eventually I became uncomfortable and got up, wrapping myself in the towel and trudging back to my room. My pajamas, a pair of sweatpants with penguins on them and a rock t-shirt, fell comfortably over my skin, and my covers embraced me with welcome as I settled into my bed. Brody Dalle snarled at me from a poster featuring the members of The Distillers, and next to her on the wall smiled Buffy Summers, stake in hand, ready to slay a vampire. Somehow, I felt like Brody was trying to tell me to destroy David and Santana and people like them, to stick it to the world and cause havoc and start a social revolution. Buffy disagreed. She wanted me to do what Mr. Schue wanted me to do: to stick it all out and make the best of everything, eventually proving how much better I am than everyone else. Brody wanted me to damage lives; Buffy wanted me to save my own. And of course, on the other side of my bed was the Alice in Chains poster, Lane Staley just urging me to go through with the original plan, telling me that it isn't that bad, that the pain dissipates quickly, and that afterwards pain no longer exists. He knows what to do; he can show me.

But then I imagined my dad, sitting at the side of my bed as he did when I was a child, reading me _Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone_. He acted out each individual character's voice, and I giggled when he pretended to be the ogre in the bathroom. And then we were in the car when that drunk driver hit it, but I didn't know that, and his neck snapped back and he stopped moving and the other car just drove away. Someone, some nice, compassionate person, pulled over and called an ambulance, as mom was crying too hard to do anything and I still didn't understand what was going on. The scene changed again and we were putting him in the ground, my mom standing beside me and both of us weeping profusely. I still didn't understand. I didn't know how I could have the greatest dad on the planet and the world could just snatch him from me.

And then I was crying too, back in the real world, wishing that he was here and that he could make things better. I balled and balled until I cried myself to sleep, and even then I dreamed of him and of the crash over and over again, and then of Brittany and of touching her and singing with her, and then of David, fist raised in preparation to strike me. I felt shaking, like an earthquake and began to cry out as it only became more rigorous. Then, my eyes jolted open.

"Are you okay honey?" My mom whispered. "You were screaming in your sleep."

My mom was fair skinned, slim, and ginger, like myself, but shorter and with a less angular face. Her soft features contorted into a worried frown. I nodded, lying. I didn't like lying to her, but over the years I learned that I sometimes had to.

"You sure?"

I nodded again.

"Alright. It's time to wake up anyway. You have school and all that good stuff," she said as she left my room. I obeyed, getting up with a defeated sigh. That day was going to be hell.

* * *

I stood at my locker, methodically turning the knob to each number of my combination. I opened it, and as I began retrieving my books, I felt a sharp pain in my side. I turned to see who had shoved me into the row of lockers, and sure enough, Puck was walking away just as Santana approached me.

"Stay away from Britt," the Cheerio hissed, pinning me even further against the lockers, ensuring that I knew she meant business, before storming off. I walked off timidly to my first period class, hoping to see Brittany later. I didn't care what Santana said. I wouldn't stay away. I finally found a friend, and I would fight to keep her.

* * *

Brittany met me outside of the chorus room before glee. "Are you ready?" she asked enthusiastically. I nodded before allowing her to lead me into the room by the hand, drawing me to sit next to her.

"Alright class," Mr. Schue smiled. "I believe Brittany and Sarah have their assignment prepared?"

"Yep!" The blonde grinned, pulling me up alongside her. We made our way to the center of the room and faced the class. I nodded to the band, and we began to sing, alternating. She sang "_She's not the kind of girl / Who likes to tell the world / About the way she feels about herself._"

"_She takes a little time," I continued, "In making up her mind / She doesn't want to fight against the tide_."

Then we sang together. "_And lately / I'm not the only one / I say never trust anyone / Always the one who has to drag her down / Maybe you'll get what you want this time around_."

Brittany took over again. "_Can't bear to face the truth / So sick he cannot move_."

"_And when he hurts he takes it out on you._"

Again, we sang in unison for the chorus. "_And lately / I'm not the only one / I say never trust anyone / Always the one who has to drag her down / Maybe you'll get what you want this time around / The trick is to keep breathing / The trick is to keep breathing_."

As Brittany and I continued the song, I felt good, liberated, high. Everyone else melted away and it was just our two voices melding perfectly into togetherness and our bodies dancing to the rhythm of the bass and the hi-hat, and a guitar and a keyboard and some violins played somewhere near us. When I sang, I just felt whole.

As the song ended, I felt as if coming off the most fantastic orgasm. The room, even Santana and Quinn and Puck, erupted into applause.

"Alright!" Mr. Schue beamed. "Looks like we have our own Shirley Manson here!" I couldn't help but smile at the comparison between myself and the other red-headed Scotswoman. Even I thought that if the members of Garbage heard that performance, they would be proud. "And wonderful as always Brittany," he continued. "It's great to see you step out of your musical shell."

We returned to our seats, Brittany beaming as if she had won something. "That was awesome!" She whispered, and I silently agreed, though I noticed Santana glaring at me from across the room.

We sat in happy silence as that Kurt kid stood and sang a number from Wicked. I couldn't help but marvel at the range of his voice. A girl whose name I learned was Mercedes sang a soulful R&B song that I didn't recognize, but it was nice and I enjoyed listening. The rest of the students were all performing later in the week, so for the rest of glee, we bounced ideas for sectionals off of each other. When it was time to leave, I got up with Brittany and we made out way out. Santana was waiting for us at the door.

"I thought I told you to stay away," she hissed at me, grabbing the blonde by the arm and pulling her away. Brittany yanked herself from the other girl's grip and walked back towards me.

"No, San," she stated firmly.

"Listen, B. The girl refuses to talk. She must be dumber than you."

"That's not why she doesn't talk," she trailed off quietly, obviously upset by the jab at her intellect.

This was another of those times when I needed my voice desperately, one of those times that I could guarantee its presence just as much as I could guarantee the fact that it would dissipate as soon as it came. "She's not dumb!" I interjected, and both girls turned to stare.

Santana burst into laughter. "That accent is just too ridiculous! Where the hell are you from? Like, New Zealand or somewhere?"

"Scotland."

"Oh! Scotland! Well anyway, you sound stupid."

"You spoke," Brittany said, her eyes still fixed on me. "You sound pretty, and I like the accent. It's hot."

"Britt," Santana fumed, "can I talk to you alone?" The blonde nodded and followed her out. I knew I was done talking.

"You really don't want to mess with that friendship," said a male voice from behind me. I turned and saw Kurt. "Brittany has been in love with Santana for as long as I can remember," he continued. "And Santana has been in love with sex with Brittany for almost as long. San doesn't like it when Brittany's love for her falters because that means she's lost some control, and by the looks of it, she's in danger of losing all of her control to you."

I sent the boy a look of confusion.

"I get it," he sighed. "No, Santana is not in love with Brittany. She exploits her. I assume you think she deserves better? I agree. I would encourage you to pursue her at your own risk however."

I nodded.

"It's nice to have another gay around here. And on a side note, I know you tried to kill yourself. I get that it's why you aren't talking unless the words force themselves from your mouth like vomit. I also have inferred that you cling to Brittany because she found you."

My eyes became fearful.

"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me." He then walked out, leaving me even more puzzled than before.

* * *

**A/N: REVIEW PLEASE! For real, I need some happy words. Or sad ones. As long as you review.**


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